together
by captainkitten
Summary: Post 1x14 canon divergence. Wyatt is free but on the run, Lucy is now a double agent. I just feel like these two needed to chat a little bit more about everything that has gone down in the past two days, from Jessica to Daddy Rittenhouse. And they probably both needed a VERY strong drink or five.


They find themselves in a bar on the outskirts of town–well off the beaten path–a run-down hole-in-the-wall dimly lit by faded Christmas lights and beer signs. The air is stale with smoke and the jukebox only seems to play Waylon Jennings, but no one pays them any attention besides the grizzled-looking bartender grunting after they request two glasses of Jim Beam.

"We only have Jack."

"Jack it is, then," Wyatt replies easily, helping Lucy out of her jacket before shrugging his own off.

The bartender nods and shuffles to the other end of the dingy bar, his grubby fingers grabbing two glasses by the rim, causing Lucy to wince.

"Alcohol kills germs, right?" Wyatt murmurs, seemingly reading her mind as his eyes following the bartender's movements. A laugh bubbles up in her, unexpected and bright, and when she turns to see his disgusted frown, she can't stop it from coming out in full. His shoulder starts shaking against where it's pressed to hers as his laughter joins, and for a minute they just give into it.

(She can't imagine anyone else being able to make her laugh at a time like this. Can't imagine anyone else…getting it. All of it.

Only him.)

It doesn't take long for the heaviness of everything to settle back around them and their laughter to fade. The drinks are placed without ceremony in front of them, and they are both quiet for a minute before Wyatt picks up his glass and clinks it to hers, his dimple flashing before they both down the amber liquor.

"How did we get here?" Lucy sighs, licking her lips as the whiskey burns down her throat.

Wyatt signals the bartender for another round. "Well, I decided to steal a time machine…" he deadpans, and she starts laughing all over again, because the sheer ridiculousness of what her life is now is almost too much to bear. None of this is funny–it really isn't–and she knows that. Wyatt is on the run from the government, Rittenhouse (her father, her unwanted legacy) has taken over Mason Industries and the Lifeboat. Flynn is still at large and Amy is still gone. Nothing about this is okay or funny.

(But it's a little easier to bear with him by her side.)

"How are you doing, with…everything?" she asks quietly, knowing the last 24 hours have been like losing Jessica all over again for him. The broken look on his face when she confirmed his rogue trip didn't save his wife after all–it had nearly broken her as well. She steals a good look at him now, taking in the crease of his brow and the long stubble on his jaw. He looks tired, more tired than she's ever seen him, and it takes all her self control not to wrap her arms around him.

"Fine, I guess," he stares down into his glass, shuttering a bit.

Lucy bumps his shoulder. "Liar."

He huffs a laugh at that, his smile sad as he meets her eyes. "You're right. But I don't know, I guess at least now I know, you know? It was almost worse thinking there was a chance she could be saved, that there was something I could _do_. But I guess she was really meant to die. I guess that was her fate," he shrugs, coughing lightly to clear the emotion from his voice.

"I'm not sure I believe that."

This earns her a surprised look. "Wait, what? You're the one who's brought fate into this in the first place!"

"Yeah, but I guess I've been hanging out with you now for too long," her lips tip in a half-smile as she shakes her head. "I don't know. I'm not sure of anything anymore. It's just…"

"Just what?" He's looking at her intently now in that way of his, the way that makes her feel laid bare and a little vulnerable. (He sees too much sometimes.) But he doesn't push, giving her the choice to continue and share. And it's that, that patience and understanding, that makes her _want_ to tell him.

"My father. Charles Lindbergh. The journal," she downs another glass of whiskey, ignoring his raised eyebrows. "On one hand, no one seems to be able to escape the Rittenhouse legacy. Or at least my father and Lindbergh couldn't."

Wyatt tosses back his own whiskey. "What do you mean?"

"Neither of them wanted it. They both told me as much. It seems like this huge family secret that is foisted upon unsuspecting teenagers as they approach adulthood, whether they want it or not. Like, _happy 18th birthday, here's your dark legacy!_ And it doesn't matter if they don't want it, they eventually end up falling in line anyway," she swirls her fresh drink, frustration lacing her voice.

"But you're not them, Luce."

"I know. I _do_ ," she emphasizes when he narrows his eyes skeptically. "But then on the other hand, there's this stupid journal. That I apparently wrote. About taking down Rittenhouse. Which, great. Fine. That's much better than being a part of it, I guess."

"So what's the problem?"

"The problem is that's Flynn! I'm not that person either. I don't like Rittenhouse–I hate them, in fact–but I am not like him. I can't just scorch the earth to get what I want, the cost is too high."

"You're no General Sherman, that's for sure," smiling when she gapes at him. "What? I _told_ you I know military history," he teases, and she knows he's trying to make her smile.

(It works.)

"It's confusing, I'll give you that," he continues, scratching at his chin thoughtfully. "So maybe there is middle ground, somewhere between fate and free-for-all. I still think you can change your future. You're not your father or Flynn, Lucy."

She wants to believe him, believe in the surety of his belief in her, but her traitorous brain continues to turn everything over and over again. She lowers her forehead into her palm. "It's making my head hurt."

He reaches down and laces his fingers with hers, and a warm jolt zips up her arm. It's not the first time they've held hands, far from it. But the simple gesture of comfort never fails to make her feel warm and lovely, even as it makes her ache a little bit for something she know can never be.

The whiskey is finally starting to make her head get fuzzy, but not unpleasantly so, and she tips her head onto his shoulder before she can think otherwise. They sit and listen as Waylon croons through the busted speakers of the jukebox for a moment, Wyatt's thumb brushing gentle circles on the back of her hand. "I know something that can help," he says at length, letting go of her hand.

She tries to keep the disappointment out of her voice as she answers. "Oh?" What's that?"

"This," he grins, blue eyes soft as he pushes another glass of whiskey into her hands.

"I'm not going to be able to drive after this."

"So we'll call Rufus."

"No, no way, he's probably with Jiya. I'm not interrupting _that_."

"Good point," his grin is quick and more like himself. "Well, we've got time. And whiskey. We'll figure it out," he bumps her shoulder with his before raising his glass. "Together."

She looks at him–with his messy hair and blue (and slightly drunk) eyes–her unlikely partner in all of this, and knows there's no one else she'd rather figure it out with. Whatever it may be.

"Together."


End file.
